Amsterdam
by Domingo Pinguinos
Summary: After Greece chooses to default and revert to the drachma, Spain is taken seriously ill due to an economic collapse. In wake of his sickness, a stream of heartbreaking secrets come to light. Songfic - Amsterdam by Coldplay.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I really despise songfics because of how poorly they're usually done, but me being a hypocrite, I decided to write one. Whoop-dee-doo. This is based off of Coldplay's Amsterdam, one of my personal favorites. I can say here and now that aside from the title, the song actually has little to do with it (i.e., no annoying paragraph breakers with "deep" quotes from the song in italics, no quotes embedded into the story itself, and so on). I do hope I carry this one on to the end. Note that while the events that take place in this story are fiction, they are all based on reality. Greece _did_ call a vote to see if they would revert back to the drachma, somewhere in between March and June of 2012. Economic specialists projected that if they did, Spain, followed by Italy, would face extreme economic downfalls that would take decades to recover from (keeping in mind that at that time, Spain had a 25% unemployment rate). It also could have signaled the complete failure of the euro. This event was also projected to benefit the United Kingdom, though not by much. Another event based in reality that happens in this chapter is the splitting of Sudan. Half of the country voted to become their own independent nation (in early 2012, I believe, but I'd check that before quoting it), thus creating the nation of Southern Sudan. Whether or not the International Court of Justice played a role in deciding the new borders is something I'd be unable to tell you. It falls under their area of expertise, but I did not see any evidence that they did.

**Chapter One**

In all its years of functioning, the International Court of Justice had quite possibly never seen so many recesses in the span of one single case. The air in this elderly palace moved still and silent with June's atmosphere and was barren, which was quite odd for a lovely early summer's afternoon. The nation representatives of the court stood and wallowed through the thickness to the door; above them in the spectators' box, the rest of the world exited, all silently flooding across the hall and into a new room, where a news channel displayed itself on a television. These nations were not awaiting an outcome; rather, a repercussion. It was perhaps ironic that the court's case had nothing to do with it, as in fact, it was purely a matter of economics and not in fact South Sudan and Sudan's border delineation.

The rattling inhale of breath was unanimous. The oxygen rushed to each of their individual wet hearts and dried and tied them in knots. The newsreels swept over the crowds, in which the world could pick out Greece, immense exhaustion written along the lines of his brow. It was so; his people had chosen to default and replace the euro with the drachma. Terrified eyes searched the gathering of nations and whispers sliced into the silence. It was like this for a moment until finally, they were all answered.

"I really feel fine!" came the enthusiastic voice from near the center. Sure enough, the sun-brightened face with dark and dandy curls was easily identified by all; Spain was as content as ever. His boyfriend nearby kept his face neutral and gave a nod in his direction. In fact, the Netherlands appeared almost irritated by Spain's facade of cheer. This, however, went unnoticed, as the nations now looked to the Italian brothers. Feliciano, now that the tense silence had been broken, was happily chatting with his irate twin, Romano.

"Idiot! How can you be so distractible? Just because nothing happened to that Spaniard doesn't mean we're safe!" he cried. Although gruff, however, relief could be heard seeping through the cracks of his criticism. Small amounts of laughter ensued as the dark mood was lifted as winter's clouds were by June's sun. It seemed in fact that Spain and the Italies would be able to resist the tumultuous currency switch that Greece had proposed.

Soon thereafter, the brothers gathered their papers and, heartily chattering to an overwhelmed and rather angry Somalia, followed the fellow court members back to their seats at the lower part of the room. The rest of the nations, in small groups, soon returned to their assigned arrangement until all that remained was Antonio, the Netherlands, and a soft shuffling of papers. Sharp green eyes examined the Spaniard as he busied himself with gathering the case abstract papers. The smaller man coughed slightly and in turn felt newly narrowed eyes graze from his turned back to the nape of his neck, causing the hair there to rise on end. He grabbed the last of his papers and tenderly made his way over to his boyfriend. Soothingly, he murmured,

"Do not worry - it is only left over from the more recent bout of fever." He had taken Holland's hands into his own and given them squeeze, his eyes searching for lover's. Now louder and more jokingly so to instill a sense of normalcy in the Netherlands, he continued, "Ay! What a fiebre that was - thank goodness it's gone for good!" The pale man quickly released Spain's hands with an affirming nod before turning and leaving him alone in the room. Antonio chuckled, his heart itching with the contradictory affection he'd always thought Lars had possessed. And as his laughter sauntered across the room, it chose to settle itself, staring into the silence, awaiting a reply. Antonio was unable to offer what this lonesomeness wanted and so he stood, a dumb grin sliding quietly away to dance with the dust in the still summer window's heat. It had seemed for a moment that he was left with nothing save solitude until the door swung open, its breeze countering that of the summer's, biting away at the dust that now ran about in a confused mess. Spain blinked once, refocusing his eyes, and glanced to the source.

"'Scuse me," Sweden apologized as he hustled into the sunlight. He reached over to the table beside Antonio, the Spaniard forgetting to scramble out of the way until it was a bit too late, and took a left-behind copy of the case briefing. The brunette caught a glimpse of the date printed on the folder's tab and offered the exclamation,

"Oh! It is the sixth of June, vale?" Sweden gave a terse nod, eyeing him with consideration as he waited for him to continue. With a fond grin, he finished, "Feliz cumple, Suecia!" The Swede nodded his thanks, but Spain, who was naturally adept at reading happiness, observed the edges of his eyes as they wrinkled with the smallest of smiles. Glad of his good health and pleased that he'd been able to brighten a day amidst the messy affair of Sudanese border trial, Antonio collected his papers and strolled after Sweden, the abandonment that he'd momentarily felt now entirely forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I actually wrote a second part. Woo me! Please enjoy reading. Thanks for stopping by!

**Chapter Two**

A shudder of sleepy coughs awoke Spain with quite a start. Drowsily and hoarse himself, his eyes swiveled in all possible directions, absorbing nothing and merely tiring themselves out with the dizziness. He blinked a few times with concentration and, over the din of the plane's engines, heard the Netherlands regard him peculiarly with,

"Are you all right?" Confused, the Spaniard looked to the seat at his right, where Lars' darting gaze attempted to observe Antonio all at once. The brunette's eyebrows shot up with the realization that the outburst must have been his, attacking him as he slept.

"I'll be fine," he replied with overly robust cheer, "It's just a nasty cold." After the conference at The Hague several months prior, both the Italies and Spain had fallen ill with a particularly harsh fever, as predicted, but they had all recovered and seemed as well off as any other nation was in this economy. His clammy hand patted Lars' as reassuringly as possible and he attempted a sunny smile. At that moment, an unseen, static-like voice announced in English,

"Ladies and gentlemen, the captain is preparing the flight for landing at this time in the JFK International Airport, New York. The local time is 7:30 AM, September 19th. If you have not already, we would please ask that you fill out your customs forms, located in the pocket of the seat in front of you. Please fasten your seatbelts and thank you for flying KLM Royal." She repeated it in Dutch as the plane began to bank steeply to the left, momentarily clouding Antonio's vision with a head rush. He flinched slightly and attempted to regain his vision before he recalled that the only way to do such a thing would be to let it pass; and so he did just that, leaning his head back against the rather nice pillow and shut his eyes. Holland pulled his hand away and remarked with irritation,

"We're going to be late. I told you we should have booked an earlier flight." Spain, who at this point was rubbing his temples, raised an eyebrow and allowed his green gaze flick to his partner.

"We'll be fine," he commented with little concern, "the meeting won't start for another hour and a half." They had missed the first day or so of the General Assembly on account of Spain's sickness - Holland had stayed behind to care for him, but had been admittedly disgruntled.

"We oughtn't to be late," he grumbled. "We've missed the elections already - there's no knowing what could've happened in the past twenty-four hours." He shifted his weight to the aisle, away from Spain, and pulled out the customs forms, filling them out rapidly, each stroke of his blue pen long and drawn-out, slicing deeply into the paper. Chuckling, Antonio persisted,

"Relax, cariño. America won't mind. All we need to do is grab our bags and a taxi!" He caught a glimpse of the Netherlands rolling his eyes and heard a snippet of mumbling that had something to do with time management and Spain. Ignoring this, but a little hurt nonetheless, he tugged his own half-finished and messy customs forms out and hastily scribbled in the last few details before beckoning the stewardess over to take both of the forms.

When the plane landed, Netherlands was quick to usher the both of them off at the first opportunity. Thankfully for the hasty man, they'd been traveling business class and were among the first passengers off. They got caught in a rather long line at the customs checkpoint, causing Lars to go from annoyed to irate. Though he felt guilty that he'd forgotten and assumed Netherlands would be vexed, Spain hadn't gauged the full depth of his consort's anger. At several intervals, Spain requested to stop and take a leisurely stroll through the airport, perhaps to grab breakfast or find a tourist shop to explore. Lars incessantly denied these, tugging Antonio hastily through the airport until at last they'd grabbed their bags from the claim and flagged down a cab. As it pulled up, he let out a noisy curse in his own tongue.

"What do we do with the bags?" he snapped at Spain, who had long since quieted his impulsive requests. His partner flinched at the harsh tone and assumed the guilt of having done something to anger Lars.

"We take them to the hotel, silly," the Spaniard replied as though it were obvious. His voice was no longer upbeat, but by no means sounded discouraged. "Tell you what," he began happily, having thought of a compromise, "you take this cab to the meeting center and I'll take the next one with the bags and get us checked in at the hotel." For a moment, Lars was conflicted, but soon shrugged and slid in the cab. The brunette gave a little wave that was cut off by a small but painful round of coughing. When he looked back up from his sleeve, he could not pick out Holland's cab, but he knew that seeing his goodbye was unnecessary; he never looked back, after all.

**Fact check:** Not sure if a UN General Assembly actually happened in 2012, but the fact that they begin on the third Tuesday of September (which, in 2012, was actually the 18th) is true. The meetings last until December, but for my purposes, I may cut them short. There also IS an international Dutch airline called KLM Royal. It may have been more accurate for the flight to land in Newark, New Jersey, though. Ah well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I actually wrote a second part. Woo me! Please enjoy reading. Thanks for stopping by!

Chapter Three

The next cab arrived swiftly and in a matter of perhaps fifteen minutes, Spain had arrived at the hotel. He made a quick business of checking himself in. They were on the fifth floor of one of America's better known hotels, though Antonio himself couldn't recall the name. He tossed the bags into their room, taking a small moment to absorb his surroundings. Unlike most rooms, it did not seem cramped. The bed was of a fairly modest size with a scarlet spread and gold accents - much alike his flag, he noticed with satisfaction. The sheets were white and the gold curtains were open, overlooking what Spain assumed was Central Park a few blocks away. He approached the windows to get a better view but when he made the mistake of looking down into the oncoming traffic below, he found that he swayed somewhat dangerously, the blood rushing to his head. Antonio stumbled off to the side where a couch drenched in the same crimson as the bed saved him from falling over entirely. He stood there, blinking to clear the colored grain from his vision, and thought it wise to close the curtains. This bathed the room in muted gold light, creating a dreamy atmosphere akin to one of Spain's Roma caverns in the south. His head began to throb as from the scarlet and gold leaked a heavy perfume that danced about the room. The wet smoke twisted in the air and became a great serpent, spewing horrid poison into the Spaniard's eyes that burned red, which turned to an arid fire with colors of an unforgiving sun setting over a parched and dying desert. Bleeding red from his eyes and breathing fire from his mouth, he could only guess that death in the lonesome hotel room was imminent.

With a particularly painful throb of the head, in part due to the headache, though mostly from hitting the table, Spain awoke to find himself on the ground. In a panic, he squirmed and writhed about the sandy floor of the carpet when he realized: he was in the hotel room, on the floor. He oriented himself and looked at the red couch - he remembered falling onto it, but after that, he recalled nothing that had made sense. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then grimaced for the pain it caused. He assumed he had passed out - perhaps a delayed reaction from the window's unsteadying view - and had a nightmare. He glimpsed the digital clock beside the bed as he stood and gave a 'Dios mio' at the shock when he learned that it was one in the afternoon - lunchtime at the meeting had come and gone! Now only concerned with how angry he must have made Lars, he snatched his briefcase and sprinted out of the hotel and down the hall and straight into an elevator. Hastily, he scanned his documents to find the scheduled meeting and location. The briefing of the fourth committee in the General Assembly would have begun half an hour ago. With a groan, he realized that this was one that was mandatory for him to attend, as Morocco, Portugal, and the United Kingdom were all to make presentations on certain border disputes they'd long had. He'd be expected to address all three of them. Antonio made a sort of half-grimace that marred his face in the elevator's reflection. He had worked so hard to prepare both himself and his presentations, timing them so that they were all less than five minutes each. A pebble seemed to wedge its way into his throat, which alongside his headache made him quite uncomfortable. He ought to make it to the meeting in fifteen minutes, however, leaving him with the last quarter of the time to present his counter-arguments.

He buckled his case shut after double-checking that the USB was in place, by now almost comfortable that he would scrape by with just the right amount of time when he arrived. He trotted out of the elevator and turned a corner to the front desk and requested that they call a cab. The clerk graciously did so and as Antonio waited, he observed the room. It had a lower ceiling than the main lobby and was comfortably decorated with dark navies, deep greens, and gold accents, which at the present time seemed to be the only theme that this hotel had. The main lobby, Spain observed when he stepped out of the room, was tall and white with baroque embellishment. There were large, potted palms on either side of the staircase, he noted as he began his descent. A footman opened the door for him and fetched his cab. He murmured his thanks as he slid into the cab, only to pull into the eternal New York traffic. To occupy himself, he pit-patted his fingers on the window, worried, until at last the building came into sight. Without hesitation, he paid the driver what was due and flew out into the middle of the street, dodging cars as he sprinted across the lanes. He snorted as the cars furiously honked at him, whirling about and stomping on their screeching brakes. And they called Spaniards bad drivers - as if they'd never seen a pedestrian before! Completely unscathed, he hurried into the building, briefcase still in hand. A receptionist appeared momentarily startled and somewhat appalled by his late arrival, having been trained to recognize him as either a political or humanoid representation of one of the many nations. The middle-aged woman ran a rapid background check and, upon discovering that he was in fact Spain, ushered him to the door of the meeting room.

Antonio composed himself, stuffing stray corners of papers into his bag, before striding as confidently into the meeting as he could, keeping his vision narrowed so not to meet the angered eyes of his fellow nations. A bit farther than midway down the aisle, he recognized a particularly familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed, bespectacled man, and shuffled into his empty space relatively nearby. He glanced to one side, where someone unfamiliar to him was sitting. A woman perhaps slightly taller than himself was seated beside him now, where South Africa once was. Her skin was as black as her short-cropped hair and showed little sympathy for his tardiness. He caught a glimpse of her placard and with a bit of shock recognized her as South Sudan, the newest of the nations. She stood in stark contrast from the rather uncomfortable, stout Sri Lanka who was dressed in one of her finer emerald saris. Spain took his seat in the silence and an angry Serbia, who was in charge of the entire General Assembly, spoke into the microphone,

"Now that that rude interruption has taken care of itself, I would ask that Sudan please continue." Her voice was strained and furious which was rather uncharacteristic: Spain had always known her as an earnest young lady, though he supposed stress could change people. With shame, he flipped through his papers to find the case that Sudan was presenting on - it possibly had to do with the new young lady at Spain's side.

He found it difficult to pay attention this day, what between his rumbling stomach, horrible headache, and the high color of shame painting his cheeks as everyone sent whispers to their neighbors about his late appearance, with theories ranging from his illness to his laziness. He kept his eyes firmly on the paper in front of him until at last the meeting came to a close without his presentations. Purposefully, he knocked over some papers so that he would have reason to hide under the desk where no one would see his tears. It was a silly thing to cry over, he knew, but he had invested much of his time into those presentations and the disappointment weighed heavily upon his heart. After the room had cleared, Spain assumed he was alone and crawled out from under, twirling his USB in his hand. He could hear the velvet carpet beside him being pushed down with the weight of shoes and he braced himself for Holland's biting comments.

"Ah, mon ami, why on earth were you so late?" questioned an amused voice. It was almost sympathetic, catching the Spaniard quite off guard - and he looked up, wildly searching for the source of the inquiry. He need not have done so, for he already had known who was standing at his side, and sure enough, offering a friendly hand and charming look to help Antonio up was France. The brunette took it and stood. With a heaving sigh, he exclaimed,

"Oh, Francis! It was horrible! I was just checking in, when the next thing I know, I'd -" he cut himself off hastily, not wanting rumors to go around or to worry anyone, though a part of him wondered if it would be wiser to inform someone of the fainting spell that had come over him in the room. "I'd fallen asleep on the couch," he finished choppily. In an attempt to be subtle, he added, "My fever has gone down, but, Dios mio, it left me exhausted. I practically collapsed!" France gave a dramatic show of shaking out his fine golden locks with exasperation, though hidden from Spain was his worried blue gaze.

"I heard your stomach growling from the other side of the room. Viens, Espagne, we must get you some quality food." Francis paused and crinkled his nose disdainfully, allowing Antonio a good chuckle. Oh, he knew exactly what his friend was thinking. "If only we could find quality food -" France commenced once more.

"In this God-forsaken country," Spain finished with an amused grin. "Trust me, amigo, I know," he chuckled weakly. A faint burning sensation crept to the back of his throat and he bit back a fit of coughs with false laughter. The blonde only rolled his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I had a really long explanation for all this, but I'm too lazy to write it out, so you'll either see it at the beginning of chapter five or I'll post it on this chapter later when copy/paste stops being a bitch. Love you all, thanks very much for reading!

"Mon ami," France pleaded to his friend as he broke into another bout of dry, clawing coughs, "are you absolutely certain there is no cause for worry? You barely touched your food!" he wailed, as though not eating were the worst symptom of all. "And all this coughing and hacking," he continued dramatically, "I swear it - you sound like you are dying!" Spain rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly.

"Francis, I am _fine,"_ he assured. "This is merely left over from the fever before. All that phlegm and whatnot." The blonde was certainly being dramatic, but France was not so sure that his anxiety was unwarranted. And here his friend was, brushing off his concerns like they were nothing! Francis disregarded Antonio's words, for he was not blind could easily see that he was unwell.

Spain's tanned face had faded to a sickly ashen color but his cheeks remained scarlet with thick blood, a look that France knew he'd seen before but could not quite place. His green irises were coated in a impenetrable fog, not unlike cobweb over moss. He did not make sharp turns; and if he did, he sometimes would sway dangerously to one side. His coughs were arid and tearing away at his throat; they were not the wet of someone's immune system attempting to rid itself of the last of a virus. Francis could not help but feel that this was merely the beginning. Spain's uneasy gaze encouraged this.

Ill or not, Francis knew, Spain could be slippery when he wanted. One moment they'd entered the meeting room together, the blonde pestering his friend with concerns for his health, and the next, he was getting distracted by people and snippets of gossip all over in the ten minutes before the meeting began and Spain had gone and hidden behind Sweden, discussing some sort of trade agreement with the cold Nordic. "Coward," he muttered to himself with a small breath of laughter. Antonio was obliviously at ease with the tall Swede, after having escaped Francis - and he appeared the only one who was. Poor Sri Lanka was cowering between Sweden and the apathetic South Sudan, apparently in the attempt to choose the lesser of two evils! Still chuckling heartily, Francis filed past Ghana and Georgia, seemingly in an earnest discussion. Ghana's eyes did not leave his companion's - the Frenchman stored this in the back of his mind for later use. Poland might find it interesting. When he came across Germany, he was caught rather off guard. He was markedly agitated and had lost all pretense of a cool demeanor. Automatically France assumed that something terribly wrong had happened with his friend, Italy. Perhaps it concerned Spain's odd behavior as well! The Frenchman hustled over to Germany and began demanding,

"What is wrong? Has something happened to one of the Italies?" Germany whirled on him and examined the other blonde with an exasperated gaze.

"Of course not! The meeting - there are exactly five minutes until it begins and look at everyone loitering around with no concerns! We'll be run off schedule!" Francis huffed, wondering why on earth he thought Germany might be concerned otherwise. If something serious had happened in Italy, he would be the first at his side, though whether it was out of habit or love, Francis still could not figure out. "Why did you think something was wrong with Italy?" Germany asked of France skeptically, scrutinizing him as a doctor would an ill patient.

"Oh, no particular reason," he replied smoothly, having had centuries of practice avoiding questions he'd rather not answer. "I just thought to myself, 'Now, Francis, there is only one man that could drive Ludwig that crazy!'" he teased, snickering at Germany's unamused expression.

"Do not call me by my name," he snapped, turning around to reorganize his impeccable stack of files and effectively dismissing France, whose signature laugh could be heard resounding in the room, mingling with the rest of the world. A few around him snickered as well and he shut his eyes for but a moment. Around him, all the sounds of the world were mingling - soft voices fluttered with gentle flirts, heated ones argued aimlessly, rational ones debated, and many chitchatted calmly, each one commanding its own attention. France strolled at a leisurely pace past the G section and into the F. There were very few of these countries and he found himself seated by his longtime and unexpected acquaintance, Finland. He heaved a sigh, already worn out by the meeting that had yet to begin.

"Some of us cannot take a joke!" Francis complained lightly to his companion, referring to his conversation with Germany. He earned a polite smile in return as the platinum blonde finished signing off on some paperwork - a well-timed glance revealed it to be a trade agreement renewal with the Netherlands - and swiveled his chair slightly to face France. His feet barely brushed the ground.

"I know what you mean," he replied kindly, light laughter bubbling in his throat. "I've seen you overreact once or twice, though usually not in connection with your love life. Your sore spot tends to be your military failures," he rambled, barely allowing France a minute's time to feel annoyance pinch at the back of his mind. He began to question why it was that he hung out with Finland anyhow when the little nation proceeded to remind him. "The other day, actually, I was out with Iceland and Denmark and Iceland said something - oh, what was it he said... Something about some night where Denmark was drunk and throwing himself at Holland, calling him the same names he usually calls Sweden - min elskede, and whatnot - and Denmark is normally fine with jokes about his drinking, but he got so angry, he stormed right on out of the restaurant we were at! He and Iceland still haven't spoken!" Francis gave a small 'O' as a prompt for Finland to continue, and the little Nordic obliged happily. "Between you and me," he confided to his fellow nation, glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, "Denmark and Sweden have been bickering a lot less lately. It's like Danmark starts arguing with a wall, but he's not as persistent as usual. He just gives it an attempt and then quits and leaves. Maybe he's just maturing fast all of a sudden," the Finn concluded uneasily, shifting his weight and squirming in his seat slightly. Quietly, however, riding on a whisper so still that Francis barely was able to catch it, he said, "but I think something's wrong." He let out a breath again and fretted to the blonde, "But you can tell Sweden's bothered by it. I hope it's not affecting him, whatever Danmark's up to." His eyes, like a huckleberry by a creek, glimmered with a tender, shining concern for his dear friend and the Frenchman found himself wondering why he and Sweden were no longer together, as they'd been for many years. Curiously, he inquired to Finland,

"What happened between you two anyhow? You seem like you still care for him, oui?" Finland's cheeks went slightly rosy, as though reminded of a sweet and gentle memory, but the light of the sun faded from his eyes, leaving behind a dull ache, not unlike a dry pebble.

"We knew each other too well," he murmured, turning his chair back to face forward and signaling very clearly that the conversation was over. Just as well, too, for at that moment, Serbia stepped up to her podium and reconvened the General Assembly, a relaxed expression now on her previously pained face, presumably in a better mood now that she'd taken a break from the unruly crowd of nations.

Francis barely found the energy to jot the occasional note down on his paper throughout the meeting. As time wore on, he was increasingly distressed by the Finn's words. He had heard many reasons for break-ups and disagreements over the years, but never had he imagined couples would be divided by boredom with each other's personalities. When the Nordics had been together, France had not thought there'd ever be a more perfect couple to grace the world - after all, each was as dull as the other, what with one speaking too much of inconsequential things and the other not speaking at all. Annoying as the smaller of the two could be, Francis had admired their quiet and enduring romance, despite its lack of flair and adoration. There had been a time when he'd wished them every happiness. To hear that they'd fallen out of love because of boredom tickled his itching heart, like a thin sheet over a blackened and burned carcass.

Very little could shake off his agitated mood. He supposed the lack of distractions in the stuffy, American meeting room was partially to blame. If only he'd been the one to choose the architecture! What soaring windows there would be! The natural light leaking in would bounce directly off of the horizon-colored decor and shine on gold-leafed embellishments. Artwork would hang in every empty space, providing ample beauty for the world to behold. Everyone would know why he was recognized as the world's capital of the arts! Lazily, France daydreamed, tapping the edge of his pen against his manila folder with little conviction.

He was not snapped out of his trance until the oddest noise resounded about the room: a snort. He perked up to discern its location, along with many others, but was unable to do so. After a moment, it sounded once more - practically as loud as a foghorn! All eyes now fell upon Spain, who'd taken it upon himself to have a siesta in the middle of the meeting. A thunderstruck Serbia snapped,

"Oh, someone wake him up and kick him out!" This outburst prompted a round of laughter from everyone, accented with a well-timed snore from Antonio. The timid Sri Lanka laid her hand upon his shoulder, her expression markedly uncomfortable, and delicately shook him. Spain did not stir. She tried once more, with even less force as the world trained their eyes upon her. She shyly removed her hand and murmured 'Spain' a few times in an effort to wake him. She was rewarded with a gentle snore and a shifting head. Francis was among the handful that were still giggling and shaking their heads with exasperation. Prussia trotted up from wherever he'd been choosing to lurk to place a hand on the blonde's shoulder, as though using him for balance, breathless with laughter as Sri Lanka attempted to wake the last of their trio. He would have spoken, France was sure, were it not for his lack of air.

All this cheerful activity must have been getting to the impassive South Sudan. Irate, the unapproachable, modelesque woman, jerked Antonio violently and hissed in his ear,

"Wake up!" The laughter succumbed to silence when still Spain did not stir. The woman jammed two fingers along his jaw, in the precise location of his carotid artery. Confused, as though waiting for a punchline to a joke, the nations watched the stoic woman. Antonio would jump up and snicker at any moment now, searching for Prussia's approval of his practical joke, France was sure.

"He's bleeding," South Sudan announced as his body convulsed and he let out a sodden retch, as what appeared to be a black clump of liquidated gum fell from his lips with a near soundless plop upon the tables. From the corner of his eye, Francis watched as the blood spilled away from Gilbert's snow-pale cheeks in fear. His own body had gone rigid with shock against Prussia. He could not tear his gaze away from the horrific sight. Neither of them had guessed that his fever had descended into such a state and as Spain's body slid off onto a disgruntled South Sudan's lap, they simultaneously lurched forward, scrambling over the other nations in haste to reach the brunette's side. They took up his body in their arms, France sinking upon his knees onto the carpet, Antonio's head falling gently into his lap. Prussia was muttering softly in German, of which he was only able to understand 'please' and 'Toni'. The brunette's breathing was shallow, only increasing as he heaved up bile and vile blood on the blonde's pants. All around, others craned their necks to behold the horrific spectacle. In frustration and heavy fear, Prussia cried out in German, thankfully repeating the message in a more common tongue.

"Someone find out what the fuck's happened to him!" The answer materialized from the most unlikely source.

"Dude, that's not a fever anymore," America said sickly, affirming France's fears. "That's the Spanish Influenza."


End file.
